


i can't breathe

by androgyndroid



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Coughing, Crush, Hanahaki Disease, One-Sided Love, POV Second Person, Sans dies if you didn't get that, Vomiting, exposed soul, flowers suck, papyrus would love sans back but yknow whatever, personal soul headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9139870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgyndroid/pseuds/androgyndroid
Summary: you love your brother(it's killing you)





	

**Author's Note:**

> quietwater do u like this  
> sorry i planned to upload smthn for christmas but i never finished it, that's sorta a constant around here so yeah  
> happy new years

  It starts with a crack, really.

  A little crack that you barely notice, more of a hole the size of pencil led in your sternum. You feel it at night, trace it with your finger and feel the little tingle of pleasure barely ghosting there. It’s just a tiny thing that you don’t know the cause.

  Then it widens and you still don’t know why and when you touch it there’s a tiny crackle of pain, like  _ you shouldn’t touch that _ and you do anyway because it’s a curious little thing. 

  (And you sort of get a little ache like you do then, but this time it comes from somewhere like inside your rib cage or in your soul, and it’s only when you look at your brother. You pay as much attention to it as you do the crack.)

  There’s a tiny little, centimeter-wide vine that starts filling in the crack after maybe a week and the tip of it surfaces enough that you can sort of tug on it and it makes a sort of burning feeling. You kind of like it, it’s weird, but you pull at it until it’s long enough that it can curl around the first joint of your phalange. The thing is a pretty, almost aqua looking green. It reminds you of echo flowers, a little bit.

  (And  _ maybe _ it’s a little hard to ignore the way your soul flutters a little bit when you look at him but you ignore it anyway. You just love him and he’s your precious brother and you  _ can’t _ have that little flutter.)

  (Your soul never really listened to you.)

  After you acknowledge that, though, it  _ grows _ . It grows and wraps around your sternum a few times and then moves and branches out to your ribs, a little scraping sensation that makes you twitch. It’s uncomfortable and itchy and every time you pull at one of the vines, your breath stops short and it sends a shock into your sternum. It’s not good.

  (And every time you look at Papyrus your cheekbones get cooler in a cold flush and you fidget, you don’t keep eye contact much with him anymore. When he hugs you, you melt a bit, your soul thumping within your rib cage. Rebellious little thing—  _ stupid _ little thing.)

  Little buds start to grow, too. It’s maybe been a month and eventually flowers bloom, on the insides of your ribs and sternum. They’re pretty. They’re all different shades of blue, but they never dip dark enough to look like your indigo. They remind you of Papyrus’ magic and that scares you a little. Well, not necessarily his  _ magic _ , he can use cyan and indigo all the same, but of the times you’ve seen his soul and the pretty glow that emanated from it. You haven’t actually seen it since he was young enough to not be embarrassed by such things, and you weren’t much older, an innocent thing when you helped him change his shirt. You probably couldn’t see it without stammering and sputtering now.

  (You need to  _ stop _ because Papyrus asked you if you were okay earlier, you weren’t breathing well, and you said yeah, fine, I’m fine, because honestly you’re having some trouble breathing sometimes and you think it’s because of him. Maybe it’s not because of him. Maybe you need some help. This isn’t good. This isn’t  _ natural _ . It’s gross.)

  The vines splinter across your rib cage overnight, wind their way around another rib or shoulder blade and more grow on that, but this time the petals sort of brush against your soul. It  _ hurts _ , it really shouldn’t you think but it hurts and you don’t know why. You grab the petals and pull.

  You have trouble regaining your breathing after that, because you can  _ feel _ the vine where that flower was and it burns and tingles and the flower felt alive in your hand even hours into your charade of shaky breaths, scraping at your eye sockets so you don’t start bawling again, and brushing your thumbs against the petals. You force yourself through the day and

  (you don’t look at Papyrus. You’re mostly silent now, because sometimes a petal or stem barely ghosts against your soul and that makes it hard to breathe. You still feel his eyes on you, tracing your expression and posture carefully but you have to stay calm and relaxed and  _ chill _ like you always are. You’re the older brother ( _ brother  _ you’re his brother) and you have to stay collected when you feel like you’re dying. It’s okay, it’s  _ fine _ .)

  They keep growing. It gets the worst at night, because you can’t do anything but breathe and that’s getting hard to do. You pinch your fingers around a petal peeking out from your ribs and hold the other hand to your mouth, jerk your hand and the petal just kind of rips like all petals do. It still hurts enough that you sit up hard and keep your hand clasped where it is hard enough that your teeth hurt. In, out, in, out. It’s really hard to breathe.

  The flowers keep brushing against your soul and they’re growing up your spine, too. Not down, they stay inside your rib cage and travel up your cervical vertebrae. That’s when the coughing starts, little tiny things that’re barely noticeable. There’s a tickling in your throat, a constant uncomfortable sensation. You twist in bed and throw your face against a pillow and cough hard, cough and cough until you spit up a small cerulean petal. It’s dry but silky and smooth and you— you’re kind of scared, you realize.

  (Your soul pulses weakly when you talk to him. You avoid the hugs now, and you actually wear collared shirts and he seems to like it. It hides the vegetation that you would see previously, so much that only a little green pokes out, so it’s better. He still glows, his smile is so wide it’s beaming and you— you goddamn  _ hate _ it because every time you think about it, breathing is a little harder. God, you’re disgusting.)

  All at once, you can’t stop hacking.

  It’s a harsh cough that ends in fistfuls of petals and even some beat up flowers, and it wracks your spine and your soul hurts hurts  _ hurts _ because roses and hydrangeas and irises and orchids all cloud your rib cage and every single brush against your soul hurts. You don’t come out of your room after that starts, you hide your face in your pillow and tremble because you can’t  _ breathe _ . God, you can’t breathe.

  (You love Papyrus so much. You love him. You love him and it’s killing you.)

  (He tried to get you to come out but you told him you didn’t feel well. You had to yell at him so he’d go away.)

  You vomit all over yourself. You heave once, twice against your pillow and then you turn your head and stain your sheets with bile and  _ goddamn flowers _ , they’re  _ everywhere _ . You sputter a bit, keep coughing for a moment but there’s less tickling now. You shove your hand into your rib cage and close your fist  _ hard _ around the flowers.

  (It  _ burns _ .)

  You jerk your hand out and keep pulling until some of the vines rip but it hurts even  _ more _ , you’re sobbing and heaving and you feel dizzy and sick, but there’s also a harsh scraping feeling inside of your bones like somebody’s grating a knife into the marrow. You keep sobbing and coughing and sputtering and heaving, and you really can’t— you really can’t breathe, now.

  (You never really considered telling Papyrus, either. He’s too good for that. He deserves none of that drama, of  _ my brother wants to fuck me _ because that’s disgusting and he knows it. He doesn’t  _ deserve _ that. You sort of just want him to come in and wrap you up in one of his hugs that fill you with warmth and take care of you, because if he did that all of the flowers would just die. Papyrus can fix everything. He doesn’t even try. He’s amazing and handsome but he’s also so stupidly kind, his smile is dazzling and he spreads optimism wherever he goes. He might act silly but he knows how to get serious. You somehow avoided that.  _ God _ you just wish he would hold you.)

  …You  _ can’t breathe _ .

  It’s hard because you keep choking, and you’re pulling at the flowers because they keep coming up. There are stains on your bed but you’ve dropped to the floor, curled up. The floor has disgusting excess magic along with shriveled up blossoms, and you can’t stop coughing, only breathing in once or twice before it starts all over again. You really can’t breathe. You just— you want it to  _ stop _ .

  You tear your hand at your throat, scratch your fingers into the bone and scratch and scratch until there are grooves, you don’t know how long it’s been. It feels like you’ve done this for days, but you haven’t had Papyrus run in and wrap you up like he will. He  _ will _ , that’s what he does.

  You just have to wait a little longer and he’ll be here to get you all fixed up.

  (You do love him, really. You wonder if, when provoked, he would love you too. Probably not, but you still wonder.)

  He doesn’t come.

_ God _ you hurt. Your soul is sort of beating shallowly, a flutter of life.

  It really just  _ hurts _ . It hurts everywhere, too, and you retch up more sticky flowers. Part of you feels numb.

  (Your vision is blurring, and you’re slowly becoming aware that you’re probably going to die. It’s okay, though. You’d probably prefer death at the moment. Papyrus…)

  You swallow hard and choke on more petals.

  (Papyrus is coming. He has to be.)

  In one moment there is pure, harsh, burning pain, rushing through your bones, coughing and choking and gagging, and in the next there is numbness.

  You can’t feel anything.

  You’re dying.

  You’re  _ dying _ .

  You’re going to die, and—

  (He’ll make you feel better)

  You still can’t breathe.

  (You love him.)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i headcanon papyrus to have cyan as his "main" color/magic  
> 2\. sans has indigo  
> 3\. yes sans is dead


End file.
